Every yesterday tells its stories
in hands gnarled from braiding sunlight
into dreams the devil cursed with ashes.
Ancient ones listen to the strands of hair
as they rope dance their history across
fingers entering the passage of wilted roses.
Like warriors, braided tresses drop along the spine
to remind the grim reaper, no matter how deep the grave,
it will never silence the voice of ancestors.
©Susie Clevenger 2021